


20. Public

by TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG



Series: Twinkstober 2020 [20]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Biting, Claiming Bites, Come Marking, Enthusiastic Consent, Fluff, Good Friend Eskel (The Witcher), Inspired by The Accidental Warlord and His Pack Series - inexplicifics, Kinktober, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Possessive Behavior, Protectiveness, Remix, Scent Marking, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, jaskier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:01:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26644153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG/pseuds/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG
Summary: Twinkstober 2020Prompt: publicJaskier is thrown to the Wolves.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Twinkstober 2020 [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923553
Comments: 28
Kudos: 713
Collections: Inspired by inexplicific Accidental Warlord AU





	20. Public

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [With a Conquering Air](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273713) by [inexplicifics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics). 



> Okay, so.  
> I read all of [The Accidental Warlord and his Pack](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683661) in like a week, and it's truly glorious. I knew I wanted to incorporate that into this challenge somehow, but the "public" prompt was the only one I thought fit in any way. So here we have 10k words of Geralt actually living up to what Jaskier expects to happen at Kaer Morhen, just not in the way he expected. Enjoy.
> 
> PSA: I have tagged this as mild dubcon because the sex could potentially be read as happening under duress but it's not really? It's an iffy situation, but rest assured that Jaskier definitely wants that dick.

Julian wants to throw up.

He's felt queasy all day, sitting in the room the dark haired Witcher (Eskel, that had been his name) had shown him to, nerves making him jump at every little sound. "Wait here," Eskel had said, and then he'd left Julian there.

What if this is it? What if he's gone to get the White Wolf, and then, if the warlord finds Julian to his liking, then-

He breathes, deeply, to fend off the rising panic. Whatever is going to happen will happen, and there is fuck all he can do about it. He was chosen for this, by his king, and he has no choice but to do his duty, so that his people might be spared the Witcher's wrath.

If only doing his duty didn't involve getting raped to death.

The heavy fall of boots outside makes his heartrate shoot up, and he stands up straight from where he was leaning against a desk and twists his fingers into the fabric of his breeches. _Just breathe_ , he thinks, as if that is going to help.

When the door opens, it's Eskel who steps in first. Once again Julian is floored by the presence of the man. He's not much taller than himself but he more than makes up for it in bulk. His face is kind, Julian thinks, despite the scars, and as much as it is possible for him to feel safe here in any fashion, Eskel at least isn't overtly threatening.

Next is a woman, a mage, with raven black hair and violet eyes, one of the most beautiful women Julian has ever seen. The look on her face shows she's intrigued, and Julian immediately feels wary.

And then.

The White Wolf.

Julian's heart is in his throat all of a sudden, and he bites his lip hard to keep in the whimper of fear that wants to burst free.

The warlord is a mountain of a man, tall and broad, with hair as white as snow and eyes like pure gold. He's... magnificent, beautiful, the sort of man Julian could write song upon song about.

If only he were someone else.

"Meet King Vizimir's idea of tribute," Eskel says after the door has been closed, and Julian shuffles his feet awkwardly. "Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove," and there's amusement in his voice.

"Tribute," the Wolf rumbles, and Julian shivers.

"Y-yes, my lord," he forces out, with a little bow of his head.

The sorceress hums thoughtfully as she looks him up and down. "Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. That's a bit long, don't you think, Geralt?"

Julian swallows down his shock when the Wolf "Hm"s in reply. _Geralt_? "Julian, is it," he asks.

"My-my friends call me Jaskier, my lord."

The Wolf comes closer, and Julian can see the way his pupils, slitted like a cat's, narrow as he steps into the light falling in through the window. He holds himself very still as the man circles him, apparently coming to some form of judgment when he stops before him. His face is blank, and Julian can't read his emotions, and it makes the panic come back.

"Jaskier," the Wolf says, and Julian sucks in air through his nose. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with you," he asks, softly.

Eskel huffs next to them. "Good question. What are you good for?"

Julian stiffens. It's not the way he'd stiffen at an insult, or an embarrassment, no, it's as if all of his muscles seize up in fear, preventing him from running. _Play dead_ , they seem to say, _and maybe the wolves won't notice you._

"Let me rephrase that," the sorceress says gently, "what are you good _at_ , little flower," and he relaxes ever so slightly. That, at least, he can answer.

“I studied for four years at Oxenfurt, and graduated with honors. I can play a lute, a viol, a harp, or a flute, and I can sing... anything you care to name. I compose, music and lyrics both.” He pauses, takes a long slow breath, staring straight ahead, at the Wolf's medallion, and adds bitterly, “And I’m told I’m quite a good lay.”

Next to him, Eskel makes a sound that, from anybody else, he'd call one of surprise. The Wolf doesn't say anything, just keeps looking at him with those unreadable golden eyes, and the panic rears its head again. "A bard, then," the sorceress says. "We could do with a court bard, wouldn't you say, Geralt?"

Julian looks up at the Wolf warily to find the man still watching him, and his heartbeat thuds in his ears. "Hm," the Wolf says.

"And Ciri could probably do with a tutor," Eskel adds, and Julian frowns.

"Who's Ciri," he asks, then ducks his head, tacking on a, "my lord?"

The Wolf again watches him for a long moment, face expressionless, then he says, "My daughter," and Julian's jaw drops. The warlord of the north has a daughter?

"She's a bit of a secret, little flower," the sorceress says, tapping the tip of her nose with one elegant finger. "But I agree with Eskel. I have her magical training well in hand, she trains with you lot, but she'll need to be educated in courtly manners sooner rather than later."

The Wolf harumphs, and his mouth ticks up the tiniest fraction in what could maybe be a smile. "Alright then. What do you need, bard," he asks, and Julian feels faint.

Maybe he's not going to die here after all.

* * *

Eskel is tasked with getting Julian set up, which feels like it should be entirely beneath his station, but he is cordial and doesn't seem to mind, so who is Julian to complain, really.

Kaer Morhen already looks enormous from the outside, but the inside is a maze of corridors and staircases that Julian is scared of getting lost in. He half suspects that Eskel is leading him in circles. The room he takes him to is at the top of a tower, but it's not the prison cell he half expected. It's... nice, actually, with a very comfortable looking bed, a little couch by the fireplace, and a desk for writing.

It's ordinary, and Julian wants to cry. His eyes actually water a little when Eskel explains about the privy and baths, when he tells him he'll have Julian's things brought up, and finally he can't stop the tears from falling as he stands by the bed, one hand fisted in the drapes.

Eskel falls quiet, and then he comes over to stand beside him. Julian tenses, expecting anger at this display, but instead Eskel gently pries his hand away from the drape and guides him to sit on the bed, sitting down beside him. After a moment he says, "This must all be very strange for you."

Julian snorts and wipes his nose with his sleeve. "You could say that."

"Not what you were expecting?"

He's quiet for a long time, all the things he's been told about the Witchers and the White Wolf specifically flashing through his mind. Finally he murmurs, "Not at all what I was expecting."

"Look," Eskel says, "we're... a rowdy bunch. Comes with being a Witcher, and comes with having so many of us under one roof. But you'll be safe here." He reaches over to pat Julian's knee, and he must notice how he tenses, how he leans ever so slightly away, because his hand hovers there for a second before he pulls it back. "I'll send someone up to show you the baths," he murmurs as he gets to his feet again, and Julian watches, still crying silently, as he goes to the door.

"Do you," he blurts, and Eskel turns to look at him. Julian takes a deep breath. "Do you think the Wolf is satisfied with the tribute?"

Eskel's face softens, and he nods. "I'm sure." After a beat, he continues, "And if he wasn't, he would not take his displeasure out on you."

He leaves then, and Julian collapses back onto the bed.

* * *

He meets Ciri after he's had a bath, and she turns out to be an utter delight. There's also another sorceress, Triss, with dark curls and kind eyes, and he likes her immediately. He learns the dark haired mage's name (Yennefer of Vengerberg, and that name rings a faint bell in his memory, one he can't place), and works out a lesson schedule with Triss and Eskel.

After, when Julian's stomach growls despite his nervousness, Eskel invites (invites! Not orders!) him down to the Great Hall for supper. "Besides, we have to introduce you," he says casually, and Julian's heart skips.

"Introduce me?"

Eskel sighs. "Geralt... He wants to make it clear that you're... off limits." The expression on his face is a bit pinched, and Julian is immediately suspicious.

"H-how is he going to do that?" His heart is racing, hammering against his ribs like a bird throwing itself against the bars of its cage, and Eskel reaches out, places a hand on his chest.

"He'll claim you. Before the others."

Julian's legs give out, and Eskel catches him deftly, cradling him against his chest. "But... You _said_ -"

"I know what I said," Eskel says, gently. "And it's true. You're safe here, with or without Geralt's claim. No one will touch you. But," and here he hooks a finger under Julian's chin, tips his head back so he has to look up at him. His eyes aren't as brightly golden as the Wolf's, a darker shade, more like amber than gold. "You'd be pack," he continues, "and that means something."

Julian tries to get his racing heart to calm down. The panic is back in full force, and he can't think. Eskel strokes his arm soothingly.

"What I said holds true for him as well, little bird. He won't hurt you."

"Can I-" His voice cracks, and he heaves a deep breath. "Can I talk to him? Before?" _Please_ , he doesn't say, but Eskel must see it on his face. He nods, and helps Julian to his feet.

* * *

They find the White Wolf in what Julian assumes is an office of sorts, bent over a map spread out on a table. Yennefer is also there, as is another Witcher, older and intimidating in his own way. All three look up when Eskel opens the door, gently pushing Julian inside ahead of him.

"Julian would like a word," he says quietly, and Julian flushes, fidgeting a little.

The Wolf looks at Eskel, then nods at Yennefer and the other Witcher. They leave after exchanging looks that communicate much more than Julian can read, especially in his current rather preoccupied state. Then Eskel moves to leave as well, and Julian's hand twitches in his direction, as if to grab his sleeve. He catches himself by surprise, and judging by the look on Eskel's face, the Witcher feels the same way.

"Can... could you stay?"

The wolves exchange another look, and finally Eskel nods. "If you'd like me to."

There's an awkward silence after that, one where Julian tries again to calm his heart, to think of what he should say. The Wolf saves him from that decision.

"Eskel told you," he says quietly, "about the claiming."

Julian nods, heat rising to his face. "Y-yes, my lord."

"And you have questions."

Deep breaths, he thinks. "W-what would... How would that work?"

The Wolf doesn't look away when he replies, "I'd fuck you. Spill inside you."

Julian whimpers, and Eskel lays a hand on his shoulder. "Witchers have a very keen sense of smell," he murmurs, and a shudder goes through Julian.

"What do I smell like," he asks, voice faint, and the White Wolf tilts his head ever so slightly.

"Right now? Terror," he replies. Then he says, "I won't force you. This is your choice, but it would offer you absolute protection from potentially unwanted advances."

"Eskel... said something about the pack." His eyes flicker to the dark haired Witcher, who squeezes his shoulder encouragingly. "What does that mean?"

The Wolf nods at Eskel, and when Eskel pulls aside the collar of his doublet and chemise, Julian's breath catches in his throat. There's a bite mark, faded but still clearly visible at the base of Eskel's throat. It must have been a deep bite, and a shiver runs down Julian's spine.

"If I accept you as pack," the Wolf says calmly, "accept you into... my family, that's what would need to happen."

"Why... why would you _do_ that," Julian breathes, then finally tears his eyes away from the mark to meet the Wolf's gaze. "You don't know anything about me."

The Wolf pushes himself off of the table to walk over to them, and Eskel squeezes his shoulder once more before he lets go. "I know that you were telling the truth about your training in Oxenfurt, and that you haven't lied to any of us even about small things. I know that Ciri loves you already, and that Triss and Eskel think you could make a life for yourself here. And I know that, even though you're afraid of me, you're considering it."

Julian is staring up at the warlord, mesmerised by his calm demeanor, so unlike what he'd thought the White Wolf would be like.

"Tell me, bard, what do the people of Redania think of me," the Wolf says softly, "and why did they think you'd be the sort of tribute that would please me?"

Julian's insides turn to ice, and he opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, but nothing comes out. He can't tell the truth, can he? Tell this man, who has been nothing but courteous so far, who has taken him into his home, who trusts him with his daughter, that his own family sent him here so the monster they all think the Wolf to be could _rape_ him to his evil heart's content and be thusly placated? He looks up into the Wolf's golden eyes and swallows, hard.

"Come on, little bird," Eskel urges gently, "it's alright," and just like that, Julian's resolve breaks.

"They think you're a monster, they thought you'd f-fuck me and kill me and gods know what else and that you'd leave Redania alone i-if I was a," and his voice finally breaks, " _a good enough fuck_." The tears are back, flowing down his cheeks and his breathing is too fast and-

"Julian," the Wolf says, and then one of his hands - large and calloused and so very warm - comes to rest on the back of Julian's neck, tugging him against his chest gently. "Breathe, Jaskier, just breathe," and really, it's the name that breaks through his despair, and so Julian does, concentrates on the slow rise and fall of the Wolf's chest beneath his cheek, on the light scent of leather and sweat, until he calms and his own breathing returns to normal, until the tears stop.

He steps back and the Wolf lets him go, looking down at him with that curiously blank face of his. "I'm sorry, my lord," he murmurs, but the man shakes his head.

"I should have known," he says quietly, but Julian can tell there's something simmering below the surface. Anger. "Witchers have always been treated as monsters, it's no surprise that someone like Vizimir would paint me as one." He nods at Eskel, and the dark haired Witcher steps forward. "See to it that supper is brought up to his room."

"I'd rather eat in the Great Hall," Julian says quickly, surprising himself, and judging by the beat of silence that follows his statement, the Witchers as well. "If that is alright, my lord," he tacks on, because if there's one thing he can fall back on, it's his manners.

Again, the White Wolf watches him silently for a long moment, and then he nods.

Something warm flows through Julian, and he's not sure at all what that means.

* * *

The Great Hall is... something. There are so many Witchers, more than Julian expected, even though the stories about the Wolf's army do make it seem like there must be thousands of them. Looking around, Julian decides there can't be more than maybe 300 in the hall, next to the regular humans who are serving them, sitting at the tables beside them, playing Gwent against them. It's like there is no difference between Witchers and humans, at least not under this roof, and Julian's head spins.

Eskel leads him to a seat at the end of the head table, and his stomach plummets. "Can't I sit somewhere else," he asks, and he can't get the pleading edge out of his voice. Eskel smiles and pats him on the arm.

"This is the safest place for you right now," and with that he pulls back the chair for him. The Witcher beside him lifts an eyebrow, and Eskel nods at him. "This is J-"

"Jaskier," Julian interrupts, cheeks aflame and half expecting Eskel to get angry at being cut off like that, but the Witcher just nods and smiles.

"Jaskier the bard," he says.

"A bard? I heard we'd gotten one," the other Witcher says, and Julian's head spins again. So the whole tribute business is a secret. "I'm Aubry," the other man says, and Julian bows with a flourish.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," he says, and Eskel laughs.

"Enjoy your meal, little bird. I'll come find you later." He leaves as Julian sinks into his chair, to take his own seat next to the White Wolf, and Julian feels... odd. Not happy, not safe, but... not unpleasant.

Aubry turns out to be rather quiet, and so Julian can concentrate on his food and his thoughts, and on watching the hall. It's, as Eskel had said, rowdy, but in a familiar, friendly fashion. The Witchers may be inhumanly strong and fast, but they are also... just men. Men who eat and drink, who argue and laugh, who hold their lovers close and who play stupid games like Gwent or dice.

His eyes stray along the length of the high table, over Ciri and Yennefer and Triss, the older Witcher whose name he still doesn't know, and then-

The White Wolf, who is looking straight at him, for gods know how long already.

Julian freezes, caught in the man's gaze like a rabbit, and after another moment the Wolf seems to take pity on him, inclining his head. The meaning is clear, and Julian rubs his suddenly clammy palms across his breeches before getting up.

He can feel hundreds of eyes on him as he walks down the length of the table, his heart hammering in his ears, and when he finally stops next to the Wolf's chair, he feels like he might pass out any second. Eskel seems to sense his distress (hells, all the Witchers probably can) and gets out of his chair, motioning for Julian to sit. He all but falls into it with a grateful smile and, steeling himself, looks up at the Wolf.

The Wolf is obviously not a man of many words, Julian has already learned, and so it doesn't surprise him when he asks, "No lute?"

Eskel makes a noise behind him. "None in storage. I sent word but it'll be a couple of days until one makes it up the trail."

"Hm," the White Wolf says, then asks, "Can you sing without one?"

"I... Yes, my lord."

Ciri perks up at that and clambers out of her chair and into the Wolf's lap. "Sing something with an adventure," she says, face alight, and despite his nerves, Julian nods.

"If it please my lord?" He can't not ask for permission, even though the Wolf has all but given it to him already.

"Hm," is the only reply, but there's something in the man's gaze that could be amusement, and so Julian clears his throat and hums to himself for a moment.

He decides on _The Ballad of Maid Marian_ , and starts singing quietly, just loud enough for Ciri and the Witchers around them to hear, and the look of delight on Ciri's face is all the encouragement he needs.

Julian very pointedly does not look at the Wolf, concentrating on Ciri and the song instead, and when he finishes, Ciri claps enthusiastically. "Oh, that was really good, wasn't it?" She's clearly talking to the Wolf, and Julian's shoulders rise a bit as if he's bracing for a blow. "You have to tell him you liked it, otherwise it's rude," she says, and Julian wants to die.

"It was fine," the Wolf rumbles, and Julian's eyes flicker up to his face. His lips tilt up a little, and there's something fond in his eyes, and Julian thinks that 'fine' may be high praise indeed from the warlord of the north.

"You're staying with us, aren't you," Ciri asks, her eyes wide, and Julian realises that there really is no question.

He can either stay here, let the Wolf claim him, something that from up close has mostly lost the heart-stopping terror he had lived with for weeks, or he can go back to Redania, disgraced and unwanted. He has no maidenhead with which to prove the Wolf never touched him, and besides, his family had been all too glad to be rid of him.

There is nothing for him outside of these walls.

The Wolf is watching him closely, and he can feel the weight of Eskel's gaze on the back of his neck, and finally he murmurs, "Yes, princess, I'm staying."

"Come here, little menace," Eskel says after a heavy pause, and Ciri jumps into his arms effortlessly so the Wolf can stand. He pulls Julian along with a hand on his elbow, and goosebumps race up Julian's arm.

The Wolf leads him around the table, to stand on the dais, and the hall falls silent astoundingly quick. Every eye is on them, and the White Wolf's hand moves from his elbow to his shoulder, a warm, heavy presence, and Julian's heart beats heavily in his chest.

“This is Jaskier, from Redania,” the White Wolf says. “Our new bard.” There’s a low murmur of mild surprise at that, which is cut off when the White Wolf adds, in a low growl that raises every hair on the back of Julian's neck, “And he is _mine_.”

"White Wolf," comes the reply from a hundred voices, and Ju- no, _Jaskier_ shivers.

They walk back around the dais, the Wolf's hand still on his shoulder, and then he pushes Jaskier down into Ciri's abandoned chair. "Drink," he murmurs as he sits in his own seat again, "eat. You look like you're about to pass out."

Yennefer, who is next to him, pats his hand, and Jaskier almost jumps out of his skin. "Shh, little flower," she says, pushing a plate into his hand, "you're one of us now," and her gentle tone shocks Jaskier more than he would have thought possible.

He eats, and drinks, whatever is put into his hands, his mind whirling with the way the Wolf had called him his, with the things that might mean besides what they have already talked about. That leads, of course, to what is to come.

The claiming, and that's where his brain grinds to a halt, refusing to touch the subject for fear of falling back on the apparently misguided ideas Redania has put into his head.

After what feels like no time at all, the Wolf stands, gathering up Ciri. "Bedtime for you, little menace," and Ciri yawns widely, then grins at Jaskier.

"Night, Jaskier," she says as she dangles from the Wolf's arm, her own along with her legs wrapped around it and her head hanging so she's looking at him upside down.

"Good night, princess," he replies, already sure that even if he had a home to return to, Ciri might be reason enough to stay anyway.

The Wolf watches them quietly, then bodily throws Ciri over his shoulder, making her squeal in delight. He holds Jaskier's gaze when he says, "I will come see you later?"

The fact that he phrases it as a question, not an order, makes something warm bloom in Jaskier's chest, and he nods. "Yes, my lord."

They watch as father and daughter leave the hall, Ciri waving at them from her place on the Wolf's shoulder, and Eskel chuckles. "I see she's got you wrapped around her little finger already."

"She's a sweet child," he replies with a smile, and Eskel laughs.

"She's a holy terror, is what she is, but if you can get her to behave in some fashion, all the better." He seems to study Jaskier for a moment, and then he leans across the Wolf's seat and asks quietly, "Are you sure?"

And surprisingly, when Jaskier answers, "Yes," he finds that he means it.

* * *

Eskel accompanies him back up to his room, and the silence between them is... comfortable, actually, which confuses Jaskier to no end. The dark haired Witcher is just as imposing as the White Wolf, and probably no less dangerous, but his manner makes all the difference. Jaskier feels... safe with him, and isn't that something.

When they reach his tower room, Eskel stops by the door. "There's nothing to be afraid of," he says softly. "Geralt will be good to you, little bird," and Jaskier's heart skips again.

"Why do you keep calling me that," he asks to distract himself, and Eskel smiles.

"You sing, and you're colourful." He motions at the clothes Jaskier had picked from his luggage, and his cheeks grow warm. "I'll stop if you don't like it."

"No, it's fine, I just- I'm not used to... to pet names," and now his cheeks are positively burning with mortification.

Eskel chuckles again. "Well, that's fair."

Jaskier shuffles his feet and picks at a thread on his doublet. _Now or never_ , he thinks. "Can I ask you something?" Eskel hums and nods, and Jaskier asks, "Is he only claiming me because he thinks it's his duty?" There's two sides to this coin, he realised as they were climbing up the stairs: the person being claimed, and the one doing the claiming. Both have to want it, he thinks, and even though a part of his brain laughs at him ("He's the White Wolf, he'll fuck anything!"), he needs to be sure. Eskel seems like a safe bet in that regard.

The dark haired Witcher looks at him for a long moment, then he says, "No. He's dutiful to a fault, but... That's not why."

"But how do you know?"

Eskel smiles softly and taps the tip of his nose. _Oh_ , Jaskier thinks, _that's... interesting_. Eskel seems to know the moment comprehension has dawned on him, his smile widening. "Good night, Jaskier," he says, words heavy with meaning, and then he closes the door and Jaskier is alone with himself.

He drops down onto the couch, and for a long while, he just sits there and stares into the fire, so long that when he finally tears his gaze away, he sees phantom flames dance before his eyes for a long moment.

"Well, no use sitting around doing nothing," he says into the silence, and pulls himself together. There is nothing to tidy up, the bed undisturbed, the linens fresh; his luggage is still mostly packed up. To keep himself busy, he strips down to his smallclothes and washes himself at the little basin by the window, watching the glow of the torches on the walls far below him as he wipes himself down.

How strange his life has turned out to be.

He digs through his trunk and pulls out soft pants and a fresh chemise, and thus attired, he digs out his notebook and quill, sitting down at the desk. He's a proper court bard now, he supposes; he should start working on songs about the exploits of the White Wolf.

His quill hovers over the parchment, dripping ink as he stares off into nothingness, and after a bit of that, he admits defeat. It's no use, his thoughts are going in circles and none of them involve music.

He has just put away ink pot and quill when there's a soft knock at the door, almost too soft to hear, and Jaskier's breath catches. The door isn't locked. Anyone could come in, really.

"Yes?"

"Can I come in," comes the Wolf's voice through the door, and Jaskier is so perplexed that he just nods at first before he remembers that the Wolf can't see him.

" _Yes_! I mean, yes, please, do, it's open."

The White Wolf enters slowly, as though approaching a spooked horse, and Jaskier thinks that the comparison isn't that far off. He does feel skittish, somewhat, like a wrong touch might send him shattering into a million pieces.

He stands up, fingers twisted into a knot, and forces a smile onto his face. He wants to say something, but what can you say in a moment like this?

"Would you sit with me," the Wolf asks, motioning at the couch, voice gentle, and Jaskier nods, crossing the room in a haste, throat tight. The Wolf approaches slowly, with measured, unhurried steps, and a part of Jaskier wishes they could just get it over with, not drag this out unnecessarily.

The Wolf is very warm, even across the distance between them. He leans back against the couch, hands loosely clasped in his lap, and Jaskier fidgets under his gaze. Finally, he asks, "Have you ever been with a man?"

There's a scathing remark on the tip of his tongue, something along the lines of, "You're not a _man_ , you're a _Witcher_ ," but those are Redania's words, his _father's_ words, and he swallows them down. They're not true, he knows. "Just... kisses. Touching. Only ever fucked women."

The Wolf hums. "At Oxenfurt." It's a statement, not a question, but Jaskier nods regardless. "Can I kiss you, Jaskier," he asks quietly, and Jaskier's heart skips.

"Yes, my lord," he breathes, and the Wolf's hand moves, slowly, to the back of his neck. The weight of it should feel oppressive, restrictive, but it's... comforting, actually, the way he gently pulls him closer, until Jaskier can feel his breath on his lips.

"Geralt," the Wolf rumbles, and Jaskier gasps in surprise. "Call me Geralt," he says, and then he's kissing Jaskier.

It's almost too gentle, just a soft press of lips, and Jaskier finds himself wanting... _more_. This is just another way of stretching this all out, of delaying the inevitable, and he opens his mouth, licks along the Wo- _Geralt's_ lips. The Witcher makes a pleased sound, the tips of his fingers pressing into the back of Jaskier's neck a little firmer, and all of a sudden, Jaskier _wants_.

He's not blind. The Wolf is incredibly handsome, exactly the sort of man Jaskier could see himself falling for in different circumstances. It helps that all of his preconceptions went straight out the window pretty much the moment he'd actually met the man.

With a burst of bravado, he climbs into Geralt's lap, his arms going around his neck. Geralt doesn't look surprised as such, but there's a question in his eyes, and Jaskier leans in again and kisses him. "Take me to bed, White Wolf," he murmurs against the other's lips, and Geralt winds an arm around his waist.

"Jaskier," he murmurs, low and heated, and a shiver runs down the bard's spine.

The Wolf rises to his feet, lifting Jaskier effortlessly, and makes his way to the bed in three strides, kissing Jaskier all the while. It's intoxicating, he thinks, his fingers tangling in Geralt's surprisingly soft hair. The man could break him as easily as ripping up a piece of paper, and instead he is running a gentle hand down his back, is kissing him so sweetly, is placing him on the bed with the utmost care.

Jaskier doesn't shy away from the man's golden gaze, because really, what would be the point. He's never been shy before, and he does want this, even if he had been scared half out of his wits by the Witcher just that morning.

And besides, if he wanted to rape him, he's had dozens of opportunities already, and Geralt doesn't seem like the kind of person who enjoys falsehoods and tricking people. That only leaves the conclusion that his gentleness, his respectfulness, that those are just who he is.

Jaskier holds out a hand, beckoning, and Geralt follows.

The weight of the Witcher next to him on the mattress feels... comforting, and Jaskier rolls until they are touching from chest to knee, one of Geralt's thighs pushed between his. "You're... very warm," he murmurs as Geralt's hand comes to rest on his waist.

"Hm," Geralt says, nosing at the crown of Jaskier's head. "All Witchers are." He hooks a finger under Jaskier's chin and tips his head back, until he can look at him again. "You asked what you smell like," he says quietly, eyes crinkling softly, and Jaskier makes an inquisitive noise. "You're not scared any more," Geralt says, closing his eyes, "but cautious." He smiles when Jaskier sucks in a breath to protest. "Cautious is good. Cautious keeps you alive," he says, and Jaskier ducks his head.

He doesn't say that all the caution in the world wouldn't save him from a keep full of Witchers, even though he knows it's true.

Geralt kisses his cheek, urges his head up again. Kisses him properly, licking into his mouth, and Jaskier melts into it. The Witcher is a good kisser, and he loses track of time for a bit, rather preoccupied with the solid chest he's pressed against, the hand stroking gently along his flank, and of course the way Geralt tastes.

Truth be told, he could get used to this.

Geralt pulls back after a long while, and his hand moves up from Jaskier's waist, to cup his jaw. His thumb brushes over his cheekbone. "Now you smell like lust," he says in a low voice, and Jaskier's eyes flutter closed.

"I..." He swallows heavily, and when he shifts a little, he realises with a start that he's hard. Geralt moves his leg, presses up ever so slightly, and Jaskier gasps as his back arches. "Oh!"

Geralt hums, obviously pleased with himself. He kisses Jaskier again, slow and deep, and Jaskier winds an arm around the man's broad shoulders. He can feel something coiling inside him, his arousal growing stronger, and soon he's rocking his hips against Geralt's thigh, short little thrusts that feel fantastic and have him moaning into the Wolf's mouth.

"Are you going to come in your breeches for me," Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier can feel the rumble of it beneath his palm. _Oh_ , he thinks, _oh, I just might_.

" _Geralt_ ," he gasps instead, the first time he has used the man's name, and the Wolf lets go of his jaw and reaches down to grab his ass instead, fingers digging into the plump flesh and guiding his movements.

"Go on, little lark, sing for me," and Jaskier is falling, he's flying, crying out as his orgasm washes over him, and it leaves him gasping and clinging to Geralt like he's the only thing tethering Jaskier to the ground.

It takes him a while to come back to himself, for his racing heart to slow, and when he looks up at the Wolf, the man's eyes are nearly black, the gold all but gone. "Th-thank you," he breathes, reaching up and kissing Geralt softly on the lips.

"What for?"

He ducks his head again, hiding his face against Geralt's chest. "For... for caring enough, I suppose."

Geralt is quiet for a long moment. Then he says, "Did you volunteer to come here, Jaskier?" His voice is oddly calm, and Jaskier bites his lip.

"No, my- no."

"Hm." Another pause, then he asks, "Are you sure you want this?"

Jaskier looks up at him sharply. "I'm absolutely certain."

There's something soft and almost sad in his eyes, and it tugs at something in Jaskier's chest. "As I said, I won't force you. I-"

"That's why I want to stay," he interrupts, and when Geralt looks a bit stunned, he blushes. "I mean... Everybody here has been nothing but kind to me. You didn't have to take me in, you could've just sent me b-back with no ill effects to yourself." He forces himself to look Geralt in the eye, even though he wants to hide, and Geralt runs a calming hand over his side, like he's gentling a horse. "There's nothing for me in Redania," he says quietly, "and I want to stay here. I want to be y-yours."

Geralt just looks at him for a long time, and Jaskier can hear his own heartbeat thrumming in his ears. Whatever Geralt sees on his face must satisfy him for now, and he says, "Alright, little lark. We'll keep you," and then he's kissing him again and Jaskier sighs against his lips.

The Wolf's hand starts wandering after a while, thumb rubbing circles into his flesh, and then slides under his chemise. The first touch of skin to skin makes Jaskier gasp, and he's lost, so lost in the sensations. It's glorious, and he briefly wonders why he was ever afraid.

Geralt's hand moves up, over his ribs, warm and heavy, and when the pads of calloused fingers slide over his nipple, he moans. The Wolf abandons his mouth for the moment, much to Jaskier's dismay, instead kissing his way along his jaw and, after pushing himself up onto his elbow, down the bard's throat with another pleased hum.

"You smell delicious," he rumbles against bis pulse, and Jaskier's heart flutters.

"Good enough to eat," he asks cheekily, because yes, he can actually be a bit of a flirt when he's not scared witless. Geralt growls in response and scrapes his teeth over Jaskier's collar bone.

"Careful, little lark," he says, but there's no heat to the threat, and Jaskier actually laughs. Geralt looks up at him then, and Jaskier realises it's the first time he has laughed since arriving that morning. Geralt's eyes crinkle, and Jaskier raises his hand and cups his cheek.

"Come and devour me, wolf," he breathes.

Geralt all but pounces, and Jaskier laughs again. He's quickly divested of his chemise and pants, and he lies back against the pillows as Geralt stands up to pull his own shirt over his head.

Jaskier's mouth goes dry.

The Witcher's muscular chest (and really, looking like that is _completely_ unfair, how is he supposed to ever get this view out of his head again?) is covered in scars, both small and large, and Jaskier's hand moves to touch. He hesitates for a second, and Geralt gently takes hold of his hand and presses it to his chest.

"Gods, you're _beautiful_ ," Jaskier blurts, and Geralt huffs a laugh. "No, I mean it! I mean, you're obviously gorgeous," and he ignores the way the Witcher's eyebrows rise at that, "but these..." He traces a scar cutting across Geralt's abdomen, watching how the muscles tighten beneath his fingertips. "These tell a _story_."

Oh, he's going to write _so many songs_ about the White Wolf and his army of Witchers.

"Come here," Geralt says hoarsely, eyes dark, and Jaskier scrambles to his knees and to the edge of the bed. Geralt takes his hand and guides it to his cock, hard and straining against his trousers. "See what you do to me with sweet words like that," he asks, and Jaskier whimpers, his fingers twitching around his length. Geralt leans down and kisses him again, rougher than before, teeth nipping at Jaskier's bottom lip. "Tell me you want it," he says, and Jaskier whines.

"I do," he gasps, "I do, I _want_ it," and he does, shocking himself with the sincerity of his desire. Despite having come already, he's half hard again, and even though he's never been fucked before, he wants it desperately now.

Geralt's hand tightens around his where he's still holding his cock, and he groans. " _Jaskier_ ," he says roughly, and then he presses him back to lie on the bed. Jaskier's heart skips as the Witcher undoes the ties of his trousers, and his eyes widen when Geralt is finally naked before him.

"Melitele have mercy," he breathes, and Geralt's mouth quirks up on one side.

"Still want it," he asks, and there's a flicker of... something in his voice, something that sounds almost like doubt, and Jaskier is having none of that, no thank you.

"I believe I said something about wanting to be devoured, didn't I?"

He has about a second to breathe after that, and then Geralt is upon him, kissing him hungrily as he slots their hips together and oh sweet Melitele, that is rather a lot. He can't help but whimper at the thought that that is supposed to go _inside him_ , and Geralt pulls back almost immediately.

"Are you alright?" There's actual concern in his voice, and Jaskier nods.

"Yes, just..." He's blushing, he knows he is, but he can't help it. "I guess I'm... a little apprehensive?"

"About what?"

He wriggles a bit under the Witcher, their cocks brushing against each other, and Jaskier whimpers again, for a different reason entirely. "Well, you're not exactly _small_ ," he finally gasps, cheeks burning, and Geralt pushes himself up onto his elbows.

"We don't have to-"

Jaskier shakes his head and hooks his legs over Geralt's, keeping him in place. The Witcher looks almost amused by that. "No, no, we _absolutely_ have to. I want to. Just... Please be gentle with me," he says softly.

Geralt looks at him for long moment, then leans down and kisses him, oh so gently. "Of course, little lark." He rolls off of Jaskier, and no, that's a development he's _not_ in favour of, his hands following the man greedily. Geralt chuckles. "I'm just getting something, bard," and Jaskier huffs.

"Well, alright then." He flops back against the pillows, one hand idly brushing over his chest, the other meandering down his side until he reaches his hip. He's still wound so tightly, every little touch feels divine, even from his own hand. And, he thinks as he watches Geralt walk across the room to the little chest of drawers on which the wash basin stands, the view is certainly _inspiring_.

Geralt returns a moment later with a small bottle, and Jaskier does his best to look at his face, he really does, but gods, who could blame him. The Witcher truly is gorgeous.

"Still with me," Geralt asks as he climbs onto the bed again, free hand stroking up Jaskier's thigh.

"Very much so," he murmurs, pressing into the touch. "What's that?" He motions at the bottle, and Geralt's smile sharpens.

"Oil."

"What f- _Oh_." He blushes again, and Geralt leans down and licks into his mouth until he's gasping.

"Yes, oh."

Jaskier squirms, cheeks on fire. "H-how do you... want me," he blurts, looking away, and Geralt hums.

"Just relax," and he coaxes Jaskier's head up and kisses him again, unhurried. It's soft and lovely and perfect, and Jaskier melts into the mattress, so distracted that he barely notices the Witcher's hand as it strokes up his thigh, then down again, a steady, repetitive motion. He's so distracted in fact that he doesn't notice when Geralt slides his hand around the back of his knee and pulls it up, and he jumps when Geralt touches him between his legs. It's just fingertips gliding softly across the skin of his inner thigh, but he sucks in a breath and makes a rather embarrassing noise of surprise.

"Oh, that's..." The Witcher is watching him intently as he presses his palm against Jaskier's flesh, and his wrist brushes against Jaskier's cock. "Oh fuck, Geralt, I..."

"Ssh, little lark, let me," and then his hand moves down, down, _down_ , thumb stroking over his balls. Jaskier whimpers and spreads his legs wider, and Geralt hums, pleased. "Good," he says, and the praise is like lightning in Jaskier's veins.

Then Geralt presses a finger against his hole, and any and all thoughts fly out of his head.

He has touched himself like this before, in the bath mostly, but oh, it feels _so much better_ when it's somebody else doing it. Jaskier's hands are fisted in the sheets, head thrown back, and he wills himself to relax, and with just the slightest bit of pressure, Geralt's finger is inside him.

" _Oh_ ," and he sounds so surprised even to his own ears. Geralt's fingers are thicker than his own, the callouses on them different than the ones playing a lute has given Jaskier. Even just that one finger feels glorious. "Geralt..."

The Witcher smiles, and Jaskier thinks he looks a little smug. He wants to say something about it, but then Geralt starts to move his hand, pulling back slowly before pushing his finger in again, and he forgets what he was going to say.

Geralt takes his time, watching him closely as he fucks him at a truly glacial pace, until one finger becomes two. Jaskier chokes at the stretch, his back arching. "Oh gods," he breathes, his hips moving of their own accord, pressing down against Geralt's hand. The Witcher leans down, kisses his slack jaw.

"You're doing fine, Jaskier," he murmurs, and the bard laughs breathlessly. Oh, he's doing _more_ than fine, thank you, and, as if to emphasise the point, his cock twitches and leaks.

He wants more. He feels like he can't possibly wait another moment, he wants Geralt inside of him now, and he whines, pawing at the Wolf's shoulders. "Please, I need-"

Geralt scissors his fingers, and Jaskier sees stars. He gasps, his toes curling and fingers digging into the Witcher's skin, and Geralt huffs a laugh. "Don't get greedy," he says softly, and then he takes one of Jaskier's hands in his and guides it down, between them, to his own cock. Jaskier moans brokenly. It feels so much bigger than it looks, and it looks plenty big already. "I don't want to hurt you," the Witcher says quietly, and starts moving his hand again.

Jaskier pants and spreads his legs wider. His mind is reeling, still so surprised by the gentle way the Wolf is handling him, and it only makes him want this more. "Well," he gasps, "you're currently hurting me by not giving me what I want," and now Geralt's eyes crinkle as he laughs, and he rests his forehead on Jaskier's chest. His breath is hot against his chest, and Jaskier's heart skips. It's so... _intimate_ , more so even than the fingers the Witcher has buried in his ass, and it makes him feel warm all over.

When Geralt looks up at him again, he's smiling. "One more," he says, then leans up and kisses Jaskier softly. "One more, and then you can have me."

 _Oh_.

For the first time, the thought that it's not just him who is being claimed here pops into his mind, and he doesn't know what to do with that idea.

"Geralt, I-"

The Witcher shuts him up with another kiss, and then there is the insistent pressure of a third finger at his hole, and he loses his train of thought entirely.

Apparently Geralt's patience has also run out, as for all his insistence on taking it slow, he now proceeds to fuck Jaskier rather quickly, at least compared to before, and it doesn't take long until Jaskier is a whimpering mess, his cock leaking against his stomach. There's a constant stream of, " _Please_ ," and, "Geralt," and, " _Fuck yes_ ," falling from his lips, and finally the Wolf seems to deem him sufficiently prepared.

He pulls his fingers away, leaving Jaskier feeling instantly bereft, and moves to kneel between the bard's pale thighs. "Ready," he asks in a low rumble, and Jaskier is this close to tearing out his own hair.

"Don't play dense, Witcher, I've been ready for _at least_ ten minutes," and it's not until the words are out of his mouth that he realises what he just said. He slaps a hand over his lips, staring at Geralt in horror, certain that _now_ he's done it, surely _that_ will anger the White Wolf, but Geralt just looks surprised, and then he laughs. He squeezes Jaskier's thighs gently, and he doesn't stop laughing, and Jaskier doesn't know what to do.

Finally the man calms down, and Jaskier swallows around the lump in his throat. "I'm sorry, that was-"

"Unexpected," Geralt finishes for him, still smiling. Then he looks down, between Jaskier's thighs. "Hand me the bottle?"

Jaskier fumbles for it, still rattled, and when he pulls out the stopper proceeds to spill half of what's inside over his hands by accident. "Ah, shit," he mumbles, hands dripping with the viscous fluid and looks for something to wipe it off with, but Geralt catches his wrists.

"Come here," he says and pulls Jaskier up to sitting, and then he guides his hands down between them.

Jaskier stares as the Wolf wraps his fingers around his cock, and then he stares some more. Then he blurts, "Can I try-" before he cuts himself off, biting his lip.

"Try what," the Witcher asks hoarsely, and Jaskier looks up at him through his lashes.

"I... I want to... know what you taste like."

There's a long beat of silence, and then Geralt looks away, at their hands, and says, "Next time, little lark," and Jaskier is almost certain that he's not imagining the way the man's voice trembles.

Something trembles inside him in response, and he grows even warmer at the promise of a next time.

Geralt guides his hands then so that Jaskier can spread the oil all over his cock, and the flutter of anticipation in the bard's belly is back full force. He's mesmerised, staring down between them as he strokes the Witcher's cock, and when he gets bold and tries a twist of his wrist on the upwards stroke, he's rewarded with a groan that makes him shiver all over. Geralt's hand is on his neck, holding him close, and Jaskier tips back his head, asking silently to be kissed. He likes kissing on principle, and he definitely likes kissing the Wolf.

"Lie back," Geralt murmurs against his lips after a while, and Jaskier lets himself fall back against the pillows.

 _This is it_ , he thinks as Geralt pours what's left in the bottle over his fingers and reaches down, spreading the oil over Jaskier's hole, and the bard bites his lip in anticipation. Geralt inches forward, until Jaskier's legs rest on his thighs, and then there's the unmistakable pressure, and Jaskier closes his eyes and forces himself to relax. _You're safe_ , he thinks, _nothing will harm you_.

His body gives way, and Geralt sinks into him, and there is not a single thought left in Jaskier's head.

"That's it," Geralt says, tone so gentle despite the way his fingertips are digging into Jaskier's thighs, "you're doing so well."

Jaskier keens, head thrown back, his own hands fisted in the sheets, and when Geralt pulls back ever so slightly, he whines. Geralt hums, and pushes back in, deeper, and again, and again, until he is finally all the way inside him, and Jaskier thinks he may just pass out.

He's so full, and it feels so fucking _good_. "Oh, _fuck_ ," he gasps, trembling all over as Geralt rocks his hips the tiniest bit, nosing at the bard's collarbone. "I think I can feel you in my _throat_."

Geralt chuckles breathlessly. "I'm not that big, lark," he says, and pulls halfway out before pushing back in a little harder, and Jaskier gives a cry.

"Feels like you are," he moans, lifting his legs to wrap around the Witcher's waist, and, "Oh gods, _yes_!" He didn't think Geralt could possibly go deeper but he can and it's amazing.

"Hm," says the Witcher, and leans up to kiss Jaskier again. "Fuck, you're so tight," he groans against Jaskier's lips, and the bard arches into him. "So good, Jaskier," and Jaskier digs his heels into the Witcher's backside.

"Please," he gasps, arm going around Geralt's shoulder so he can sink his fingers into that beautiful silver hair. He doesn't know what exactly he's asking for but it doesn't matter. Geralt will know.

The Witcher slides a hand under Jaskier's ass and lifts him, as easily as though he weighs nothing at all, pulls him closer, and then-

Well. Then he starts _fucking_ him.

Jaskier wants to be more poetic about it, he really does, but... He grins broadly. If only he'd known that all it took to shut up his overactive mind was to have his brains fucked out by a gorgeous Witcher.

Geralt sits up on his heels and takes Jaskier by the hips, holding him in place as he fucks him, and Jaskier starts babbling, and Geralt seems to like that, too, because his thrusts get harder, more desperate. Jaskier wails when the Witcher pulls both of his legs over one shoulder, thighs pressed together, and it's so, so _good_.

"Fuck, Geralt, oh, _fuck_ , that's-" He chokes on his words, pleasure taking his breath away, and when Geralt tilts his hips just so, it's like fire is running through his veins. "Wha-"

"Jaskier," the Wolf growls, reaches around Jaskier's legs and wraps a hand around his cock. " _Come on_." He keeps hitting that spot inside him that makes Jaskier nearly burst with pleasure, and then he smears the pearly beads of fluid over the head of Jaskier's cock and-

Jaskier comes, his back arching off the bed, and he screams. Coming around a cock feels unlike anything he has ever experienced, and he wants more. Wants to never be without it again. Geralt fucks him through his orgasm, fucks him until he's overstimulated and sobbing with it, and then he leans down, burying his nose against Jaskier's throat, his hips still pumping mercilessly.

"Jaskier, can I-" His voice is wrecked, barely more than a growl, and Jaskier shivers and tips his head to the side.

"Please, do it," and then he's screaming again as Geralt sinks his teeth into the meaty part of his shoulder, groaning into his flesh. Stars burst behind his eyelids as the pain radiates outward, and Geralt digs his fingers into his hips and fucks him just that much harder, just a couple of powerful thrusts before his hips stutter and Jaskier thinks he can almost feel the Wolf spilling into him.

There's nothing but the harsh sounds of their breathing for a long moment, and the rushing of his blood in his ears, and Jaskier feels like he's floating.

It should be agony when Geralt lets go of his shoulder, but Jaskier is too blissed out to care. He just winces, and Geralt makes a soothing sound in the back of his throat. Jaskier grins up at him, eyes half-lidded.

"That was nice," he mumbles, and the Witcher smiles down at him. His teeth and lips are blood-stained, and he should look terrifying like this, but he doesn't. He gently brushes a lock of hair out of his face and nods.

"Hm." Then he asks, "How's the shoulder?"

Jaskier waves his hand vaguely. "I suppose I'll live."

They stay like that for a long while, until Geralt has softened and slips from Jaskier's ass, and the bard grumbles a little at the loss. Geralt gets off the bed and fetches a damp cloth, and Jaskier rolls to his side obediently and lets him clean the wound.

"It should scar nicely," he murmurs as he lies down beside Jaskier, and the bard scoots closer, plastering himself to the Witcher's side. Geralt seems surprised yet again, but he doesn't complain and winds an arm around Jaskier. "Are you sure you're alright," he asks after a while, and Jaskier laughs lightly.

"I am more than alright, believe me." And truly, he is.

He came to Kaer Morhen expecting to be at least maimed horribly or more likely killed. Instead he found an odd assortment of characters, all of whom accepted him more or less with open arms, and the spectre of the White Wolf, the warlord of the north, that has hung over him for the last couple of weeks, dissolved into thin air upon him actually meeting the man.

Geralt is kind, and generous, and beautiful, and Jaskier could really have done _so_ much worse for himself.

He presses a kiss to the Witcher's chest, where his heart is beating slowly, and Geralt squeezes his shoulder.

"There's just one thing," he says airily after a while, and Geralt tenses ever so slightly. Jaskier smiles up at him cheekily. "Now that I'm your court bard," he says, "I'll have to write _at least_ one ode to that magnificent cock of yours."

Geralt actually laughs at that, clearly startled, and Jaskier can't help but feel more than just fond of the man. "As long as you only sing it for me, little lark," he murmurs, pulling him closer, and Jaskier rests his head against his chest with a smile.

"I'm sure that could be arranged."

* * *

When Jaskier wakes up, he's very warm, very sore, and very much surrounded by Witcher.

Geralt, he realises as the haze of sleep lifts, is curled around him, one arm thrown over his middle possessively. It's sweet, and something happy flutters in Jaskier's chest as he puts his own hand over Geralt's where he's holding him.

It doesn't take long until the Wolf stirs behind him, nosing at Jaskier's hair and breathing him in, and Jaskier smiles. "Good morning, my lord."

"Morning," Geralt rumbles, and Jaskier shivers. The Witcher's arm tightens a little around him. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore," he replies, and Geralt makes an apologetic sound. "But... I'm glad that I'm here," he says softly, "with you."

Geralt hums and laces their fingers together over Jaskier's stomach. "I'm glad, too," he says after a while.

Jaskier turns around to face him, and Geralt pulls him closer. It's the easiest thing in the world to lean in and kiss the man. Kissing leads to wandering hands, and ends with Jaskier kneeling across Geralt's shoulders, holding onto the bed's headboard for dear life as the Wolf attempts to suck his soul out through his cock. At least that's what it feels like.

It takes an almost embarrassingly short amount of time for him to come, spilling down Geralt's throat with a cry, and the Witcher groans, strong fingers digging into the meat of Jaskier's ass. Jaskier is still dizzy and breathless from his orgasm when he crawls down the Witcher's body and wraps his hand around his cock. "My turn," he gasps before he takes him into his mouth, and the strangled sound Geralt makes is fuel to the fire.

He's never done this before, but he'll be damned before passing up on a challenge, and this certainly is one. His jaw starts to ache quickly, and the taste is... interesting, but finding out what makes the Wolf groan, how he has to flick his tongue to make the man grasp his hair (and _oh_ , he didn't know he _liked that_ ), all of that becomes his singular cause for existing.

Apparently he's doing a pretty good job since it also doesn't take Geralt long to growl, "Jaskier, I'll-," and then he's tugging on his hair, but Jaskier is determined. Some may say stubborn, but whatever. Of course he's no match for Witcher strength, and he gives a cry of protest as Geralt hooks his hands under his arms and hauls Jaskier off of his cock.

"Wait, I want-" He doesn't get to finish his request, as Geralt twitches in his hand, still wrapped around his cock, and then he groans, stripes of come painting Jaskier's chest and throat, and he makes use of the Witcher's momentary distraction to wriggle out of his grip. He takes Geralt back into his mouth, pleased with the strangled sound that draws from the Witcher, and grins when the man's hips jerk.

He'll probably never love the taste of come, but it's tolerable, and he proceeds to lick Geralt clean despite the man's insistence that he doesn't have to do that. When he's done, Geralt pulls him up into his arms and kisses him, passionately and with his fingers back in Jaskier's hair. His other hand dips into the rapidly cooling come slowly dripping down Jaskier's chest, and he growls against the bard's lips.

"You're unbelievable," he says as he rubs his come into Jaskier's skin, and Jaskier grins.

"One tries," he replies, and Geralt barks a laugh.

They both doze off again for a little bit after that, until Geralt nudges him awake gently when Jaskier's stomach growls. "Time for breakfast," he rumbles, and Jaskier curls himself tighter around the Wolf.

"Already had breakfast."

Geralt groans, and Jaskier grins against his chest before he lets himself be dragged out of bed.

"Don't bathe today," Geralt says quietly while they're getting dressed, and Jaskier looks up from where he's busy pulling on his boots. There's the faintest hint of pink at the tips of Geralt's ears, and Jaskier grins, despite the way his heart skips a beat.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, and Geralt chuckles.

Stepping out of his room smelling like sex and come and Geralt, into a keep full of Witchers... It's certainly an experience. They pass a couple of people on their way to the great hall, and while the humans all very pointedly don't look at the bite that is still bleeding sluggishly and staining his chemise red, the Witchers seem to have no problem letting them know that they know. Their nostrils flare as Jaskier approaches, and then they look at Geralt and incline their heads with a deferential, "White Wolf".

It should make Jaskier feel like an object, like he's property, and in a way he is, he supposes. One look at Geralt, however, at the soft way he returns the gaze, is enough to reassure him that that's not all there is between them.

There aren't many people in the hall, as breakfast seems to be a rather informal affair. There's a buffet of sorts set up, and all of a sudden he's _starving_. Geralt nods for him to go and pick something while he heads over to the head table where Eskel is already eating, and Jaskier doesn't miss the knowing smile the dark haired Witcher wears on his lips.

Well.

When he has his plate piled higher than it probably needs to, he wanders over to the table. Aubry isn't there, and he hesitates for half a second. Sitting here alone seems... well, lonely, but then he looks up and Geralt is pulling out the chair next to him. That's Ciri's place, Jaskier thinks, but Ciri is down the table in Triss' lap, and so he walks over and sits.

Eskel is still smiling when he says, "Have a good night, bard?"

Geralt smacks his arm, and Jaskier's ears are burning, but he meets the Witcher's eye and says, maybe a little haughtily, "Fantastic actually, thank you for asking."

Eskel's smile widens, and Jaskier knows the man's amusement is probably directed mostly at Geralt. Who must also absolutely _reek_ of Jaskier, he realises belatedly. His eyes flicker to Geralt, who is doggedly ignoring both of them.

The dark haired Witcher chuckles and leans forward a little, and his voice is pitched low when he says, "Welcome to the pack, little bird."

Jaskier's heart thuds excitedly, and he smiles when Geralt places one large, warm hand on his knee. "Happy to be here," he says, and finds it's the truth.


End file.
